


The Art of Seeing

by m_madeleine



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Drawing, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Post-Seine, artist Javert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:22:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23809807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_madeleine/pseuds/m_madeleine
Summary: Post-Seine, Javert finds distraction in art. Valjean need not know he has become a frequent subject, does he? Then, however, the nature of Javert's drawing takes an explicit turn...
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 20
Kudos: 104
Collections: les miseres





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Life Drawing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/783697) by [drcalvin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drcalvin/pseuds/drcalvin). 



> Most of this fic was written back in 2014, but a year or two ago I decided to fix it up, since it seemed like a shame to let it gather dust on my harddrive. It obviously comes from a different time, both for my writing and the fandom, but I hope someone out there still gets some entertainment out of it :) It's definitely been a blast to revisit!
> 
> Dedicated to all my dear friends whom I've made through Les Mis. Most of us might've moved on to other fandoms, but I cherish you all for being awesome and showing me how much fun writing and fandom can really be <3

_"Learning to draw is really a matter of learning to see - to see correctly - and that means a good deal more than merely looking with the eye."_ -Kimon Nicolaides 

_“Sight is a faculty; seeing is an art.”_ -G.P. Marsh

  


As a young policeman, Javert had regarded drawing to be a mere tool. Praised for his keen eye and precise lines, he had often been tasked with making sketches for his superiors. Later, occasionally, he would make a drawing in lieu of a note, to aid his memory. Never had he thought to make use of his abilities for amusement's sake.

Now, after the Seine, this had changed. Having been bed-ridden for a while, there was not much entertainment to be found. Valjean had offered to read to him, but the man’s interest still lay chiefly in the biblical. Javert could muster only so much patience for the book he had read wrong for so long. He was not quite ready to revisit it yet; Valjean understood. 

As unexpectedly difficult as it was returning to a skill he had once been proficient in, as unexpectedly simple it was to fall into close friendship with Valjean. And when these two elements converged, they seemed only to strengthen each other. There were not many suitable subjects for drawing to be found in Javerts chamber and, spending so much of his time at the station, the thought of venturing back out into the city to find a subject seemed repulsive to him. Valjean’s home, however, was full of enticements — the wild garden with its plants in their many forms, the cosy warmth of the sitting room. And so, Javert sketched Valjean’s garden shed, with the shovels leaning on its side; baskets overflowing with vegetables of all shapes and sized; the plushness of Valjean’s sitting chair, the hard edges of his books. The one element absent from his drawings was Valjean himself. For a while, at least.

***

Javert liked watching Valjean garden. Sometimes he helped, but almost as often as he would offer, Valjean would refuse him. Sometimes Javert would push; at other times, however, he was privately glad to sit back and get some rest after a day of patrolling.

This particular circumstance occurred on one of the latter days, while he was idly sketching some of Valjean’s roses, charcoal smearing his fingers. At last growing tired of the shrubs, he cast about in search for another subject . And found Valjean. Valjean, who had insisted on wearing a gigantic straw hat that day to shield himself from the sun. Javert approved of Valjean being prudent about his health, especially considering his age — God knows, he was wont to neglect it — yet the hat had a curious, comical look about it. He had not been able to help teasing Valjean about it, insisting the man take it off, though he had not truly meant it. Valjean had adjusted the hat demonstratively, lips quirking with understanding at the underlying joke. 

Javert turned over a new leaf and his strokes sought and found the line of Valjean’s back. He sketched his curls with quick flicks of his wrist, added a few lines to denote the wrinkles of his sleeves and, excepting some gentle planes of shadow, left the bulk of Valjean’s coat white and unfilled. The sketch took him little more than a few minutes. What came of it was a hunched figure, illuminated by sunlight. Valjean’s face was scarcely visible — an observant onlooker could have perhaps found the similarity in the powerful line of his shoulders. 

It was an innocent little drawing and, Javert thought, showed the utter ridiculousness of Valjean’s hat rather well. He tucked it away, with the intention of showing it to Valjean later. Yet their conversation strayed far that evening and before he had realized, Javert found himself recounting anecdotes from his many years in the service. Only on his way home, the memory of Valjean’s quiet but joyful laughter bringing a smile to his own lips, did he remember the sketch tucked away in his pocket. 

***

Somehow, showing Valjean the drawing at their next meeting seemed impossible. Removed from their quiet afternoon in the garden, it felt much less innocent, less amusing than it had been. What if Valjean did not consent to being captured in this way? Despite the relative anonymity of the piece, Javert could not help but feel uneasy. He kept his silence. And with every new meeting coming to pass, uncovering this secret he had acquired by accident seemed less and less possible. Javert put the drawing far away, into a cardboard folder in his bottom desk drawer, and resolved to never do such a thing again.

The resolution did not last long. Valjean lent himself well to observation, able to keep an even expression seemingly for hours while reading in front of the fireplace. It was on another such evening Javert suddenly found he had scribbled Valjean’s profile in the margin on his notebook without meaning to. He made a move to cover it with hasty scrawls of ink and then decided against it and shut the book instead.

He did not mean evil, he told himself. Valjean was merely another object of study, as he had found in multitudes after that night of turmoil above the Seine. Yet to tell Valjean of it, or even outright ask him to pose – it was a step he could not bring himself to take.

***

Little by little, the folder in his bottom drawer grew thicker.

“What a disgrace,” Javert sighed, leafing through the sheets. He sat propped up in his bed. It was probably past midnight — at times, the unrest in his mind led him to keep rather unhealthy hours. The candle he had lit against the darkness flickered over the lines of Valjean’s face and body, in charcoal, graphite and ink. He reached for a pencil lying on his nightstand and deepened the shadows on a portrait he had drawn last week — Valjean bent over his roses, his face almost solemn. The darker shade amplified the expression even more. 

Was he not stealing something from Valjean with this?, he thought with another sigh. Betraying the trust he had gained from him, in spite of everything? Javert passed a thumb over the rough paper, over the thick lines which somehow came together to resemble Valjean’s face and all of a sudden, the tenderness blooming in his heart startled him. He snatched his hand away as if burned and shook his head in an attempt to put the strange emotions in him to silence. 

Javert turned the pages again, seeking to view them with a detached artist’s eye. His ability to capture Valjean’s likeness had increased, indeed. He wondered, was it possible—? Turning a sheet to its blank side and eyes darting to the older work now and then, Javert started to sketch in quick flicks of pencil. Each stroke carved Valjean from the paper like a sculptor’s chisel summoning a figure from stone. At last, Javert lay down the pencil and surveyed his work. Half based on earlier sketches, half from memory, he had drawn a portrait of Valjean down to his chest. His head was half-turned, catching light on his nose and cheeks; his shirt stretched over his shoulders, throwing wrinkles. 

It was not bad, Javert noted. It could have been Valjean standing in his garden. With a sigh of dismay, he threw the sheet into the folder and cursed.

***

Javert found that his mind would not move on from Valjean — as if he were a youngster, only learning to draw and reproducing the same image he had found himself good at. Yet he drew Valjean differently each time, occasionally dwelling on his face or on his body, attempting to reproduce his stance and even, after some hesitation, his smile.

It occurred to Javert that perhaps he was trying to unravel him, for his face was indeed a mystery. He held... beauty, Javert realized, flinching at the strange choice of words. There were lines of worry on Valjean’s forehead, his hands had been hardened by toil and time — but the crinkles in the corners of his eyes spoke of kindness and his face was gentle, despite the hardships of his life. Javert sought these features with an artist’s eye, for they were what made Valjean’s face different from so many others; yet he attempted as well to understand this man, whom he had judged in his harshness for the longest time.

***

Javert came to draw regularly late at night. The number of sketches made from memory started to outnumber the life drawings — the further he went, the more he feared getting caught in the act. He doubted Valjean would forgive him any of this if he knew. Yet in his room, with the knowledge that no soul would ever lay eye on his work, Javert felt more secure. It was almost as if he was thinking about Valjean in the privacy of his mind, except the result of his thoughts was tangible on paper. 

One night, he paused in his work, after having drawn Valjean’s head. Usually he lay down a quick sketch of his body, an outline of his shoulders, chest and waist, to then make the shirt fall in the proper way. After a moment of thinking, he brought down his pencil to deepen the lines of his arms.

This was dangerous. More shameful than anything he had done before. To rob Valjean of his clothes in this way... and yet, everything be damned, it lit something in his chest and only half aware of what he was doing, he continued to draw. Line by line, Valjean’s bare chest took form on the paper. The bulk of it was guesswork — he had no way of knowing how Valjean’s chest looked exactly, of course, though he thought he had gotten his broad shoulders and muscled arms down rather well. A sudden thought stopped Javert short. He felt sick, all of a sudden, and a pang of guilt echoed in his chest. He would not enter the territory of old scars and painful memories. Instead, Javert decided to add some hair to Valjean’s chest — judging by how much of it was covering his arms, it was likely realistic. He let it lead down his stomach and sneak below his navel in a trail.

Finally, Javert lay down his pencil. Considering it was almost entirely fabricated, it was probably a good likeness. Valjean’s arms spoke of his strength, his shoulders—

Suddenly, Javert became aware of the heat pooling between his legs. Dread swept through him; he cursed himself. But then, why not admit where all this had been leading? Why not admit he desired—? He gritted his teeth. He had stooped too low already. It would be madness, but— He pressed his hand to his crotch through the covers, hoping for the heat to wane, and could not help rutting against it. 

Javert looked at his hand, then at the picture lying where he had put it aside. 

“Hell,” he muttered and pushed his hand under the blanket. A groan escaped him when he wrapped his fingers around his prick. It took only a few stroked to coax himself to full hardness. Javert laid back his head and thumbed at the tip of his cock. He shuddered and thought of Valjean, of his large hand sliding down Javert’s length, of his eyes which would hold his gaze when he came undone— Javert covered his mouth just in time to muffle a moan. Speeding up his strokes, he imagined Valjean’s hand, his mouth around him and soon the images of touching him and being touched in return forced a muffled cry from him and he came, hips bucking. 

Javert sank back into the mattress; his heartbeat was slowing. Disdain rose in him. He threw aside the covers and reached for a handkerchief to wipe the spent off his hand. By some miracle he had almost entirely avoided staining the blanket. He crumpled up the handkerchief, then reached for the drawing and scrunched it up into a ball as well. After a quick search through his drawers he stalked over to the fireplace and threw the evidence of this shameful event into it, followed by a burning match.

***

Javert stayed away from Valjean’s house the next day, sending a note that explained his absence with work being likely to detain him until the late hours. He indeed lingered at the police station as long as possible, but when he was ultimately forced to return home by virtue of the porter’s rattling keys, he was still left with an abundance of time at hand. Without Valjean’s presence to check him, his thoughts were free to run wild into each possible direction.

He did not draw that night. In fact, he refused to think about Valjean at all, taking to a moral tract long forgotten on his shelf, which he hoped would lull him into sleep. It made him tired, in fact, yet sleep refused to come and so he lay in his bed until the sky started to lighten once more. At some point during the long hours, Javert lost himself in his mind’s labyrinth despite his resolution and the situation seemed to grow more and more desolate and hopeless, until at last he was sure he could never face Valjean again. He must have slept, however, for he woke to the morning sun warming his face. It was later than he was in the habit of waking and his appearance at the station was delayed even further by the violent pounding in his head which plagued him at every move. Javert did not know how he got through the day, but at the end of it, he decided to visit Valjean.

“You look unwell,” were Valjean’s first words and his eyes spoke of such worry that Javert felt a pang of remorse at several things at once — from staying away and causing Valjean pain, to this damned madness which had taken hold of him. 

Javert kept his hand away from the sketch book that night, making a point of listening attentively as Valjean told him of his day, the flowers he had cared for, his visit to Cosette; making a point of talking about what would interest Valjean, as well. His words and smiles lit a warmth in Javert’s chest which only waned when he had almost reached his house again. He enjoyed simply being in Valjean’s presence as much as ever — this madness had not taken robbed him of this, at least. Perhaps it would even come to pass on its own, Javert thought with optimism.

***

He had not drawn for a week when he slipped up again. The sketches he produced this time were messier, perhaps not even intelligible if a stranger came across them, but still, their content!

“I will burn in hell,” Javert informed the ceiling. The words had no effect whatsoever on his prick, which had grown interested at the images of Valjean naked. He sighed, running his fingers down his length. No guilt could make him cease, but God help him, had Valjean saved his soul for this? How could he—

And still, his hand refused to stop, and he stroked himself until sweat gleamed on his skin, until each touch to the sensitive head of his prick wrung a small gasp from him. The images in his mind changed rapidly, and yet it was always Valjean, giving him pleasure, receiving pleasure from him. Javert spread his legs further and, his other hand still stroking his prick, reached down and pressed a finger to his opening. He could not imagine Valjean wanting to touch him in this manner, even if he desired him as well, yet the thought still aroused Javert. He bit his lip, pushing the finger inside.

It was just bearable, without any aid — he did not have anything at hand and his mind recoiled at the thought of buying oil or cream for that purpose; surely his depravity had to have an end somewhere. Not here, evidently, he thought as through a haze, arching his back at the feeling of being filled in this way, thinking of Valjean’s finger sliding in and out of his entrance, his hand spreading the slickness down his prick... He imagined Valjean pushing his prick into him slowly, breaching him, and turned his head into the pillow just in time to choke out his shout as his body tensed up and the spent splashed across his stomach.

Afterwards, he lay there for a while, too dazed to move, and then went to clean himself, throwing the sketches into the folder with a groan of dismay


	2. Chapter 2

In truth, Valjean thought, the amount of time he and Javert spent in each other’s company meant they might as well simply live together. He had not dared to breach the subject yet, for one because he was not at all sure that Javert, who might see it as an imposition, would agree; secondly, because he feared it was not for entirely selfless reasons.

Had anybody, just one year ago, when he had chanced upon the inspector by the sewer’s exit, told him he would form something akin to a friendship with the man who had haunted him for decades, he would have berated the person for laughing at him. Had this individual told him, however, that he would further come to regard Javert on a much deeper level, he would have outright questioned their sanity. Valjean could not explain it to himself. It was true — these days, he could let his guard down in Javert’s presence like he could do with no other. Though he had, on a tear-filled night, confessed some secrets of his past to Cosette, others would forever be closed to her, for he did not wish to cause her distress. In the beginning, he had simply felt responsible for Javert, bound by a sense of accountability to the bishop to set Javert onto the right path. Then he had come to enjoy his presence – conversation flowed easily between them, silences had stopped feeling awkward. Javert could be amusing, in his own way and he seemed to be pleased by Valjean’s company as well.

And now he yearned for… he did not know. They had settled into their friendship comfortably and little more could be gained there. Physical closeness? The thought was not displeasing, but Valjean knew little about such matters. He had never supposed he would have any application for it. Thoughts came to his mind sometimes, of cradling Javert’s hand in his, sharing the warmth of their bodies; even kissing, though Valjean could not, for the life of him, imagine what Javert would look like being kissed. He dwelled on these images from time to time with some wistfulness, yet dismissed them more often. What use was there in dreaming of the impossible, encouraging feelings which could only bring sadness?

Still, it was with some curiosity Valjean took note of Javert drawing him. He had witnessed his early attempts a year ago, mostly of plants and houses. Javert had not been unskilled, even then. Valjean had watched his progress for a while, seen him introduce sketches of passers-by from the streets when he got well enough to walk outside again. Valjean had wondered, occasionally, when Javert had first started to draw and what his subjects had been in his youth, but for all the friendship between them, it seemed too personal a subject to breach. There was a silent agreement between them to not touch on most matters lying too far in the past. And then Javert had gotten less open about his drawings either way, though Valjean still saw him produce pencil and book to sketch from time to time. It might not have even been the first drawing of him which made Valjean become aware of Javert’s gaze flickering towards him as he sketched. The discovery was amusing, and he kept his silence. He was sure he did not even catch all of Javert’s attempts, for the man was very skilled at hiding his gaze. Perhaps Javert was reluctant to openly ask him to pose, though Valjean still did not quite understand why he was drawing him in the first place. It may have been that he was the only person Javert saw regularly enough to practise on and measure progress.

It did not distress him much. Though he found it somewhat disconcerting to have his likeness pinned down in this way, by a member of the police no less, it did not hit him as hard as it might have some time ago. It was not an astonishing revelation, yet a revelation none the less: he trusted Javert. And as such, despite some left-over hesitancy, he simply thought it curious Javert had found his features worth recording. 

Occasionally, a mischievous thought rose in Valjean and he imagined asking Javert about the drawings — he wondered just how flustered the inspector would be — but for the moment, he decided not to trouble him. 

***

It was a good thing Valjean had visited Javert’s home several times already, for the landlady recognized him instantly. During these visits he had noticed how barren and drab Javert’s room was. The curtains, the wallpaper, the bed sheets — even the floor seemed grey and washed out. Dullness seemed to hang in the chamber, certainly not improved by Javert’s lack of possessions. Whenever Valjean had voiced his concerns, Javert had dismissed them, calling the chamber perfectly serviceable. Valjean did not agree, which was how he had ended up at the house, asking the landlady to admit him into Javert’s chamber, though he was still at work. He had expected her to ask no questions, but despite her civility towards him, she insisted on knowing the reason. Valjean sighed and decided to come out with the truth.

“In all honesty, Madame — I wish to make him a present he would certainly not accept from my hands. He will still know its origins, but I believe if he finds it in his room, refusing it would prove more difficult.”

The landlady’s face softened a little at that and she sighed, obviously seeing through her long-time lodger as well.

Once in Javert’s chamber, Valjean looked around. It was clean, as always, and familiarly bleak. He unbuttoned his coat and produced a package he had concealed under it. The paper rustled as he unwrapped it, revealing a quilt in light reds and blues. Not too showy, it would bring some colour into the room as well as providing a cover for the bed during the daytime. Javert went without and had, as he had assured Valjean, for years. Valjean approached the bed, smiling a little at the image of Javert’s exasperated face when he would come across it later in the day. However, as Valjean would tell Javert should he protest, it was not only pleasant but necessary; besides, it had been made by a widow who had several children to care for and thus the money had been well spent. Yet plans rarely go as they should and so, unfortunately, when he draped the quilt over the bed, the gust of air swept something off the nightstand. It hit the floor with a clang and rolled under the bed. 

Valjean sucked in a breath. It might have been just a pencil, but he still was not eager to cause Javert any inconvenience or make his visit an imposition. Besides, though Javert was now loath to mention it since he disliked Valjean’s offers of paying for them, several remarks had made Valjean well aware that the supplies did not come cheap. He crouched down and peered under the bed. The space was completely dark. He could not discern a thing and when he reached forward, he found nothing either; his arm did not reach far enough. He sighed. Moving the bed would make too much noise, besides, the old thing might not take it and simply fall apart. He would need something long to reach further under it, perhaps a ruler or something similar. As Javert was a keen journal writer and preferred neatness in most aspects of his life, he was bound to own one.

A quick search of the shelves and desk proved, however, fruitless and Valjean froze in indecision. Opening the drawers would constitute a breach of trust – yet once Valjean had decided on a line of action, he rarely abandoned it. Especially since he had only just reminded himself of Javert’s penchant for neatness, combined with the likelihood of him already being somewhat out of sorts over Valjean’s gift. Thus, after a moment of hesitation Valjean attempted to open the drawers anyway, resolving to keep his gaze brief. 

The first held nothing useful, merely some stationery. He found the second one locked. Expecting the third to be inaccessible as well, Valjean pulled the handle and suddenly it gave under his hand and the drawer slipped open. No ruler, either, only a thick folder made of paper. Valjean attempted to lift it gently to look underneath, but somehow he had been too careless after all, for a sheet slipped out and fell to the floor. He reached for it, merely to replace it, yet he had inadvertently already looked: It was a drawing. Indeed, it was... Valjean peered at it more closely and recognized himself.

It was a rough sketch of him kneeling in the garden. Valjean fancied he even remembered the occasion — Javert’s criticism of his hat had been rather vehement. He let out an amused huff. Javert’s habit of drawing him was still a great source of entertainment. Valjean opened the folder to put the sheet back and was faced with a larger drawing of his likeness. It was rather impressive, he noted, and suddenly felt himself seized by a strange curiosity which made him forget all propriety. He turned the sheet almost unconsciously and proceeded to flip through the drawings with interest. Javert’s skills had grown indeed. Valjean recognized himself in each sketch; some surprised him. There had been many days, it seemed, when he had taken no notice of Javert drawing him at all. Finally, one page stopped him short. Surely, Valjean thought in confusion, he had never been undressed to his shirtsleeves in Javert’s presence? But then, his shirt did not quite look like that, for the seams were very different and it was tailored more loosely... Valjean frowned and put it aside. Yet his confusion kept on, until several drawings further, when he turned over a sheet — and froze. 

Valjean peered at the drawing, his mind blank, except for the utterly unhelpful thought that his chest did not quite look like this, either. He held it further away. The sheet gave no answer, continuing to present the image of him bare to his navel. He put it aside, carefully turning another page. Drawing after drawing; his mouth ran dry. Javert had drawn him...in the nude… He flushed. His heart hammered away in his chest. 

Such things and Javert — Javert! — had drawn him....

He swallowed convulsively and after bringing the pages back in order with trembling hands, set the folder back into the drawer. Then, remembering at the last moment to take the paper packaging with him, he fled the room. 

“Shall I tell the inspector you were here?” the landlady inquired as he not quite rushed down the stairs. 

“Please do, should he ask,” Valjean somehow managed to mutter, and escaped into the street.

***

It was long past his usual bedtime and Valjean was still sitting in front of the fireplace, lost in thought. The drawings had shaken him and he still did not understand. Why would Javert— but no. He had to look at it with reason. Perhaps, Valjean thought and, passing a hand over his face, let himself complete a thought which had been floating in his mind for hours and which he had not allowed himself to linger on before, it was because Javert desired him. 

Yet he could not— Valjean shook his head. The thought was dangerous; it was leading him in a direction... He could not believe it to be true. Of course, he was inclined similarly and if Javert... if he indeed wished... Valjean would have felt joy, unexpected as the whole matter was, but he could not believe it. On the other hand, what other explanation was there? Unless this was some kind of joke. Valjean’s blood ran cold. Javert could not be so cruel, surely, yet... He would have to confront him. It would be awkward and perhaps even painful, and yet Valjean needed to know. He still felt guilt at having intruded on Javert’s private things. Had he not looked, he would not be faced with this dilemma now. But what was done was done and he could not simply look past it and pretend he had never seen the drawings. Something had to be done. The uncertainty whether Javert wanted him or not would surely lead to his demise. 

With this decision, Valjean went to bed, yet sleep did not come to him for hours, and when it did, he dreamed of Javert kissing at his neck softly, his lips drifting lower and lower, and then he woke up with a gasp, pleasure soon replaced by anxiety again. 

***

“That was completely unnecessary,” Javert grumbled over tea the next day. Had Valjean not opened the third drawer, he might have laughed and let himself be swept into a discussion, adamant on making his point. As the matter stood, however, Valjean felt his stomach turn at the unexpected opportunity for the talk he dreaded but knew he must initiate. He would have preferred not to discuss the matter over tea, yet he doubted he would have the courage to bring it up again later. 

“You must know already I will disagree with you, however there is a more pressing matter, that is...” Valjean exhaled. Javert looked at him attentively, lifting the teacup to his lips. Valjean started again. “When I was in your chamber... in short... forgive me,” he took a deep breath, “I have seen the drawings.”

The teacup clattered on the table; Javert had upset his teacup and a stain spread on the tablecloth. All colour had left Javert’s face. He was staring at Valjean, a look of horror in his wide eyes. His lips moved, but he made no sound and Valjean decided to speak, fiddling with the cloth.

“It was wrong of me to pry and I am sorry— “ 

“No,” Javert cut him off. His voice was hoarse. “You should not be apologizing. Forgive me, Valjean, I— forgive me.” He passed a hand over his face. “I could say the devil tempted me, but you know I don’t— No, it was my own depravity. There will be no excuses, I will admit it all; after everything, I have attempted to do right, and yet my mind is filthy, and if you chose to turn me out this instant, I would not protest. I can only hope you will forgive me, though I will understand if you...” He broke off and swallowed and Valjean took advantage of the pause to speak.

“Believe me, I do not condemn you, but it is important for me to know... why?” he asked softly. “Why did you... I beg you to be honest, please tell me.”

Javert was staring down on the table. Valjean waited for him to speak, biting his lip; when he had been silent for a prolonged time, Valjean tried again. 

“Javert...”

“Yes. Yes, if you wish, I suppose I owe you the truth,” Javert muttered. Then he closed his eyes and spoke louder. “Truth is, Valjean, I have been thinking of you as... as friends should not think of each other. Forgive me, I am sorry to cause you this pain. I will drive these thoughts from my mind, I will burn those damned drawings, I...”

He shook his head with disdain and broke off; had he not, Valjean would have stopped him. He felt his chest lighten and the beginning of a smile on his lips. So Javert did...? He exhaled in relief and stretched out a hand to cover Javert’s, which was fisted in the tablecloth. Javert jumped at the touch, but his head was still bowed.

“Please, Javert,” Valjean said, barely above a whisper. Javert lifted his head a little, fixing his eyes somewhere above Valjean’s shoulder, his mouth an unhappy line. 

Yet how should he tell him? Valjean wanted to laugh. This was ridiculous. 

“Actually, I do not... that is, I too am, well—“

Javert stared at him in confusion, then his eyes darted to their joined hands.

“Do not play games with me, Valjean,” he breathed. 

Valjean shook his head. “No I...” He let out a desperate huff. “I do not know how to express this...” He gave up on trying and reached across the table instead. Javert followed his hand with his eyes; Valjean could see his chest rising and falling rapidly. His own breath was going fast as well, his heart racing in his chest. Javert made a small noise when Valjean touched his cheek lightly. His eyes locked with Valjean’s, a desperate expression in them. Valjean got to his feet and Javert followed him and then there was a loud crash when the teapot fell and shattered on the floor as they finally took hold of each other and somewhere amidst the confusion their lips met. 

He made a small noise. It was so strange; Javert’s breath against his lips, the insistent, desperate way his mouth moved against Valjean’s. Valjean felt dizzy, joyful and utterly terrified; he did not know what to do. He sucked at Javert’s bottom lip slightly, to try something at least, and was rewarded with a shudder. Encouraged, he nipped at it and Javert moaned suddenly, clutching at his shoulders. Valjean opened his eyes and finally got an answer to his longstanding question — Javert looked utterly broken, desperate, his eyes squeezed shut, and the sight made Valjean shudder; and then Javert licked at his lip and Valjean, trembling violently, opened his mouth to reciprocate and the feeling of the wet heat which should have perhaps been strange, but which only chased shivers down his spine, made his eyes flutter shut again.

It was stranger than he had imagined, but all kinds of thrilling. Javert’s hands were hot as a furnace on his shoulders, gripping desperately. Valjean realized his hands were hanging at his sides in a very ridiculous way and clutched at Javert’s waist tentatively. Javert hummed; his lips drifted away from Valjean’s mouth, up his cheek, and he drew him closer. Valjean buried his face in the crook of Javert’s neck, savouring the warmth between them. At last, he looked up and brought up a hand to stroke the side of Javert’s face — he had expected Javert to protest; instead his lips twitched with something which might have been called a smile. Valjean could not help but return it. 

*** 

Valjean posed deliberately for him now. Whenever he would take note of Javert’s scribbling, especially in the evenings before the fireplace, he would still, incline his head slightly and close his eyes. Javert was left grumbling that it took quite a bit of the challenge out of the venture, if Valjean insisted on holding a perfect three-quarter pose at all times. It caused him to seek out more opportunities to make quick drawings of Valjean unobserved. He showed these to Valjean now and though many of them seemed mere smudges, having only taken a minute or less to capture Valjean’s movements in the garden, Valjean was rather impressed. 

Still, Javert would have never dared to take the next step. It was Valjean who ventured there first, one evening, by suggesting to Javert that he draw him from life like he had from fantasy before. Seeing Valjean unclothe himself was almost too much; Javert felt shaky and yet, he took up the pencil. Yet, he drew – and found beauty lying in the unexpected. Valjean looked quite different from how he had imagined. The muscles on his stomach were somewhat lopsided, there was softness around the middle, despite his strong arms. Javert was not disappointed, could have never been. Having the real Valjean before him was already more thrilling than he could have imagined. For this Valjean was not merely a silent companion in graphite. As the light of the fire gleamed on his white hair, he would smile lightly, murmur jokes, flex his limbs discreetly before moving them back into position. 

The effort Valjean put into being a good subject made Javert strive to complete a good picture even more. He got lost in the drawing for a while, the scrape of the pencil, the strength of lines, the dimension of shadows. Once he resurfaced, he felt almost lost. He looked upon the drawing for a while. It was not his best work, of course. The lighting was low, and he could not deny he had been somewhat unsettled his subject’s conscious presence. Still, thinking back to his first shaky attempts on his sickbed, he could see a change. It took Valjean calling his name for him to return to the present. Valjean was wrapping himself in a blanket for warmth and the way he blushed lightly when he asked if Javert was satisfied with his work enough to share it made Javert feel curiously warm inside. And when Valjean took him to bed soon after, Javert let himself forget the laws of proportion, the shapes Valjean’s body was made of. It all seemed much different up close, anyway. 


End file.
